So you want to emigrate? 3 tips to consider.​

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Do you dream about emigrating? Find yourself asking what it’s all about? Do you ever question why it is that you or your husband work all year for a measly couple of weeks off in the summer? Dream of a different life? An easier life? Continue reading “So you want to emigrate? 3 tips to consider.​”

Spot. The difference when you’re not 12. 

As Mothers, we are always telling our children, “be who you are!” “Dont worry what people think of you!” ” Just love being you!”.

Right?

I woke up this morning with a big fat spot on the side of  my face.

“Where the hell has that come from?” is what flickered through my mind for 3 seconds. But, then I remembered.

We had run out of toilet roll last night.  If the kids were to use the kitchen paper towel when they visited the toilet this morning, it would block up the septic tank. Not a nice thought , and one much more important than the offending spot. Off to the shop I go. New face guest in tow. Ah, how bliss it is, to be 46 and not give a shit about a spot.

Fast forward five hours. Sitting next to my 12 (and 3/4 ) year old daughter, in the car. Although we have been together all day, still, she had failed to notice this new addition. Until now.

“What is that on your cheek?” She asks, in a tone that is reserved only for mothers and daughters.

“A spot- see! Even adults get spots!”

It was said in a , ‘look at me ! I’m 46 , Ive got a spot and I’m so cool about it.’ sort of way. To reassure, not myself, but her.

Or maybe both of us.

The reasoning behind that?

I look at this beautiful girl. Who, so far this week, has worried and fretted about the following :

  • The new knickers that you bought me (2 weeks ago) show through my dance shorts.
  • My lips are getting too big for my flute (honestly) and its not blowing right.
  • I think there are  flees in my bed (new kittens, so fair point), my backs itchy.
  • I’ve got a mono brow.
  • I’m too tall.
  • My T.shirt isn’t white anymore (hands up to that one)
  • Ive got too many moles…

OOhhhh …I could go on and on.

Really.

My wonderful girl is 12. She’s beautiful, she’s talented.

But she’s 12.

And remember how hard 12 was?

And I think I’ve got problems, with an overflowing septic tank.

So, my lesson and hope for today?

Is that, when she saw her Mother-facing the world without an ounce of, ‘its going to make it look worse’ concealer on- she took something away.  Even a little,tiddly,12 year old something. And logged it, into that beautiful brain of hers.

Please know that you’re  gorgeous. Know that it wouldn’t matter if you had twenty million spots and eyebrow hairs and lips and fleas and yellowy white t shirts – you’ll still always be gorgeous. Because you are you. Because you are 12.Because you are 46. 52. 64. 73. 88. 96…

We are all … just gorgeous .

Thank you spot. Thank you age… Thank you toilet rolls.

 

 One lifestyle change that will save you money immediately, when you emigrate to New Zealand with your kids! 

This is an inblogtweeny . A bit of information on how emigrating to New Zealand, has saved me approximately $500  per  year on one lifestyle change.

Shoes.

Incase you didn’t know, proper shoe wearing amongst New Zealand school children, is neither compulsory , nor fashionable. There are, it seems, three options when deciding which way to adorne your wee piglets trotters. 

A: Bare (a number 1 choice for a large percentage of the kiwi kids). 

B: Flip- Flops  ( when winter hits, they seem to make an appearance).


Or C: One up from flip-flops (but with a strap around the ankle .Not the model shown, but similar, worn by ‘them there high schoolers.’)

Whichever  your choice, the maximum you will pay is approximately $30 per pair. Already a bargain. I know. But wait…

There is another option . It’s the one that we chose. But remember people, we are homeschoolers, ( and therefore …weird) and this choice isn’t really, well …cool.

Crocs. 

I know. Gorgeous aren’t they ? 

Comfy as anything, easy to kick off, stylish in a ‘German backpacker ‘sort of way,  never wear out. Crocs.

 And I’m not talking the real ones, with the picture of the little crocodile on the strap here. No. (Poor Kids. )

We went , and continue to go for , the replicas that are about a third of the price,  and at the most, need replacing only three times a year. (And that’s being generous.)

My kids have played at piano recitals and have hiked mountains in these beauties, they really are the bomb.  

So…Living in New Zealand.

Cost on shoes per year = $90. 

Times two kids = $180. 

That’s about 45 pounds. Per Year.

Compared to the Clarkes shoes, which I was buying when we lived in England, which set me back approx 45 pounds per term . New shoes were always needed per term, (I’m sure Clarkes brush some leather shrinker onto their shoes .)

Living in England.

Cost on shoes per year = $360 

Times that   by 2 kids = $720 .

A whopping difference of $540 per year saving!

We have lived in New Zealand for nearly 8 years now, so I’m guessing, there should be about four thousand dollars around here somewhere…

The hippy that changed my life.

If we hadn’t emigrated  I most certainly wouldn’t have homeschooled for the past 8 years. Neither would I have started my own touring theatre company but that’s a different blog.

That’s not to say that had we not dragged ourselves to the other side of the world I wouldn’t have dabbled in the waters of schooling without school. But you know what?.. truthfully.. I dont think I would have dared.

Back then you see before we made the big move, I  was different. I was a conformist. I wanted to be liked. Desperate to be liked. I wanted to please. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted to get my children into the ‘right’ school. I wanted a BA1 address , having such a postcode said to people that I lived not on the outskirts, but slap bang centre in the middle of the historic city of Bath in the UK. I wanted the children to say Barth and not Ba’ath. That way I might be able to pretend to strangers ,through my well educated southern born children, that I myself was as well bred as those that drove to school in the Range Rover  and who’s parents had bequeathed them the solid silver cutlery set.

I am ashamed to say this.

I’m just going to say it.

I was a snob. Not a snob in the sense that I thought others were below me. No, that’s one personality trait that I can’t take ownership of. But the snobbiness that comes from striving to be something or someone that you are not ? Yes. Guilty. SHIT, SHiT Shit shit . It’s hard to admit that about yourself.

Keep going Liz. Breathe.

So. Homeschooling back then? Noooo. Infact, NNNOOOOOOO with a capital N.  Too hippy shitty..Too weirdy freaky..Too living on the canal boat with the kids wearing each other’s second hand clothes ..too funny haircuts…Too BA4.

And then one morning , walking along the  canal path (and let us be clear here, not walking because ‘eco is me and I have the time to walk my child to school’ No. Walking as in ‘I can’t get parked near the friggin’ school, so have to park in the pub car park down the road and sprint ‘ walking) Late as always to get Sonny to extra tuition maths class before school. You know the one. The one where you’re told in no uncertain terms that your kid is shit at maths because he is 7 and cant recite the 9 times table. That one.

When suddenly, on one of those new agey wooden bikes with no wheels, no hang on ,it had wheels ..it didn’t have pedals , that was it. On one of those pedaless things, was a little boy about the same age as Sonny. Riding across my very important and busy pathway. Nearly colliding into my sons very polished and very expensive Clarkes shoes.

Across from him a woman , coming out of her hand painted, beautiful house boat. Herbs balanced along the side, housed in old French looking pots.   The remenants of last nights late night moonlit chat in the form of two empty wine glasses and half a bottle of red  left at the little wrought iron painted yellow table . She was picking out fir cones from a basket for her fire and she looked over at him , witnessing the near head on .. she smiled.

Smiled.

There it was.

The moment.

You know when people ask “so what made you want to homeschool?”

That was it .

Her life versus my life. Femme parfait, on her woodsmoke smelling ‘bobbing on the water calmly’ abyss. Smiling. Living the good life in second hand clothes . Tending to her herbs .Not a school notice pinned anywhere on her battered fridge.

Not even.. wearing a watch.

And me.

Me.

Dragging my son along the towpath in order for him to chant his 9 times tables to an overtired, underpaid teacher aide. In order for me to get to work. In order for me to earn money. In order for me to pay off the credit card that we ran up taking our kids to Alton towers (a totally overpriced theme park in the UK) In order to feel happy thank you very much. In order to buy some expensive make up to cover my frown lines. In order to look as though ..I smiled.

Homeschooling. Take two.

Too free…Too real.. Too loads of time.. Too always seem to be relaxed.. Too confident..Too calm..Too free..

Too..me.

It all flashed through my suddenly clear mind as to if and how we could do it. (Not live on the house boat with femme beautiful, no, I dont like confined spaces.. herbs or no herbs) To just change our lives. Escape from this mess of tangled time tight schedules  that we had somehow created. Spending more and more money to try and find a place in our lives that felt safe. Like the safe you feel as a child when you know that your dinner will be ready at 5 no matter what.

This life that we were living.. this BA1 life..it just wasn’t authentic. This life that never allowed me to look for more than 5 minutes into the eyes of my children without saying “have you done your homework?”. I wanted to escape. I wanted to change. I wanted to homeschool. I wanted to smile like the pedalless mother.
That was in  March 2008. Within 9 months we were sitting on a plane headed for a country my husband had never even been to. The business? Gone. The BA1 house? Gone. The ever so prestigious primary school? Gone. The debt? Gone (most of it anyway).

My story of the hows and whens of emigrating is at least another 4 blogs long. It wasn’t easy, not by a long stretch. But.. when you see a life in front of you and that life is what you want..like us,  you’ll go to the end of the earth to get it. And thats what we did.

A one way ticket for 4 to New Zealand please.Throw away the scissors kids.. you’re growing your hair.